


Top and tail (2)

by nutsforwinter



Series: Close [6]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:39:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutsforwinter/pseuds/nutsforwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He saw her going for the whiskey bottle and ducked in the nick of time, barely avoiding the glass projectile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top and tail (2)

Every time he woke at some ungodly hour, Numbers regretted it. It wasn’t only because of the unpleasant buzzing sensation in his numb head and limbs, or the fact that it was pitch-black outside, it being long after or before the sun was in the sky. He also regretted it because the bitter taste in his mouth belied a falling out with Melanie, with one or both of them invariably under the influence of alcohol. It had never been rainbows and unicorns between them, even in the beginning, but in the year since Wrench last visited his place, she had moved in with him, and they got along well enough. At least, they used to. Lately it seemed that he was waking up with that bitter taste increasingly often, and that he was getting to know it a little too well than he would like to admit.

It was with this same taste on his tongue that Numbers came to. He awoke in the same position he had fallen asleep in so that when he pried his eyes open they fell directly on the clock on top of the nightstand. It read 11:00PM. He rubbed his eyes awake taking care to avoid the bruises, and when he opened them again, the alarm clock read 11:11PM. After laying motionless for another minute, listening to Wrench’s breathing, he noticed light. He shifted carefully, raising himself up on his elbows and looking past Wrench towards the door which was slightly open. He followed the beam of yellow light, which fell across Wrench’s closed eyes, his own deflated pillow, and finally landed on the bottle of beer he had brought in earlier.

There was no hesitation as he reached over to grab it and the opener. He wrestled with the tool with his numb fingers and when he finally got the bottle open, he eagerly claimed his prize, fueled by the desire to wash down the lingering bitterness. To his own surprise, he drained its contents in one go; testament to an especially bad afternoon/evening/night, he supposed.

Numbers turned his attention to the bear of a man sleeping beside him. He noted with slight amusement how unusually still Wrench had been, the habitual tossing and turning which would disturb him even in a separate bed across a motel room having been subdued by the sheer fatigue he had observed in him when he answered the door.

As the events of the evening came flooding back, the gears that had earlier been too rusted over with muck of emotional and physical exhaustion began to whir back to life. It hadn’t struck him then as it should have when Wrench admitted he had resorted to living out of his car, but when he considered it properly, he realized didn’t even know why Wrench had been living in such a shitty motel set-up in the first place. Sure, their pay grade wouldn’t put them on any Forbes list, but if Numbers could live comfortably on his half of what they earned together…

He was startled out of thought by a series of clinking noises followed by the sound of a glass shattering. Still half-reclined on his elbows, he let his head drop backward as he looked up at the ceiling with an irritated sigh. He crawled out of bed, not concerned too badly about waking Wrench; it was never easy to rouse him out of sleep. For good measure, he shut the door to the bedroom anyway. 

Melanie sat at the kitchen counter, a freshly opened bottle of whiskey rather more empty than full at her side, her head cradled by hands which seconds ago had relieved themselves of their burden, a glass tumbler now in pieces scattered across the floor to form a haphazard line between Numbers and herself. Numbers took note of the scene and stepped over the shards with all the bodily coordination he could muster. 

“Hey,” he called out tentatively.

“Hey,” she replied without looking at him. She reached for the bottle, but Numbers slid it away from her grasp. 

“I think you should stop,” he said softly. He needed to exude calm to inspire it, an especially critical task knowing how this was likely to unfold. 

“Fuck you.” 

She practically spat the words at him, the uncharacteristic toxicity taking Numbers aback. “Honey?” He instinctively surveyed the area for clues, a much-reinforced habit that had on various occasions saved his and Wrench’s life. There wasn’t much in the area of clues as much as a stark display of incriminating evidence: on the couch where she had passed out, there were two or three beers, which by the looks of it, she had consumed within the past hour in addition to the whiskey, and by the front door was a packed suitcase. 

“When are you going to introduce me?” she drawled, her tone dripping with acrimonious sarcasm. 

Numbers blinked hard, trying to get his bearings. His confusion regarding the suitcase and when she had packed it was compounded by the fact that she was fully dressed, even her trench coat cinched around her waist. “What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about your deaf-mute _friend,_ ” she exploded without warning, her face and neck flushed with drunkenness. “Your faggot friend!” 

“Oh, for Chrissakes,” he moaned, rubbing his temples which reverberated with the shrill tone of her voice. 

“That’s right, I saw.” Her face was smug as she intermittently jabbed a wobbly finger in his direction. “If pussy wasn’t your thing, the least you could have done was tell me so I could leave the place while you two sucked each other’s dicks!” 

“That’s not--”

“Oh, but it is. That’s what you were so busy doing last week!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “And the month before. You had him so deep inside your ass you couldn’t even bother to call me! Well congratulations, you get what you want, because I’m leaving! You can go fuck yourself!” A terrible smile distorted her features. “Both of you can go fuck yourselves!” 

Numbers’ patience was beginning to thin. “You’re drunk.” 

“Who are you to judge?” His unwillingness to engage was backfiring, and she grew more and more excited with each passing minute. 

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. He was starting to get tunnel vision, and that was not a good sign. 

She laughed, her intoxication lending her disposition to a newfound cruelty. “What for?” she said, raising her voice yet higher. _“He can’t hear me!”_  

Numbers bristled. Things were happening too quickly for his slightly hungover mind, and he needed her to slow down, or better yet, stop. He moved toward her cautiously. “You need to calm down.” 

“Get away from me!” she screamed, tears now falling unrestrained down her cheeks. She was frightened by his approach, perhaps rightfully so. 

He saw her going for the whiskey bottle and ducked in the nick of time, barely avoiding the glass projectile. He heard the smash, then a dull thud. He whipped his head around and was met with the sight of Wrench hunching over in the doorway to his bedroom, hands clasped over his bleeding forehead, a puddle of glass and alcohol at his feet

Any residual fog was cleared from his mind, and a black fury gripped Numbers. He lunged at Melanie’s throwing hand, grabbing her by the wrist.

“Are you finished now?” he asked, keeping his voice deliberately low. His pulse was strong but steady, and he could feel his bruised face thrumming with each beat. He tightened his grip on her wrist, to let her know just how powerless she was. 

All traces of inebriation quickly vanished from her countenance. Her eyes widened at his eerily calm tone, and if she was frightened before, there were no words to describe her terror now as she squirmed helplessly in his vice-like grip. He wanted to back off, yet this feeling of domination by intimidation, all too familiar to him from years of experience, created a kind of perverse high and he couldn’t come down. He knew he was going to win, and although it was the last thing he could ever want right now, he was going to see it through. 

“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered, tears frozen in their tracks.

Numbers leaned in so that she could feel his breath on her cheeks, observing her pupils which had grown to the size of dimes. All of her facilities were overcome by the single point of physical contact with her wrist. He knew fear, thrived on it even, and it fed his strange exhilaration like dry leaves fed a wildfire. Numbers felt his lips lift up by the corners, and before he knew it, no matter how much he willed against it, no matter how much his insides churned in protest, no matter how loudly his mind screamed at him to stop, his teeth were bared in a hideous grin so many of his victims saw moments before their end. 

“You think _this_ hurts?” he heard and felt the laughter claw its way up his throat and through his teeth, and nothing has hurt like this in such a long time, this loss of control he was trying to conceal with calculated malice. Tightening his grip further on her arm, he thrust his hand forward, forcing her to take two steps back. “What about my faggot friend?”

“I’m sorry!” She was out-and-out sobbing now.

“If you’re going to leave,” he continued to snarl quietly, “then _leave_. We don’t need anymore shit from you.” 

He released her arm, and before he could assess the damage, she snatched up her suitcase and left in a flurry of tears, not bothering to close the door. Numbers stood and listened to her footsteps dying away through three flights of stairs. He exhaled heavily. His pulse had returned to normal, and his tunnel vision had cleared, but he felt dirtier than he ever had coming out of any wet job. 

He heard tinkling of glass, and turned around. Wrench was back on his feet, and apparently had witnessed the entire affair, though he couldn’t possibly know what it had been about. Numbers looked at Wrench, who was holding one hand to his hairline, blood dripping from between his fingers, and at his piercing gaze framed by eyebrows crimped in pain, outrage, concern, or all of the above, and he knew it didn’t matter what it had been about. He could only hold his gaze for a few seconds before he felt the shame creeping up from his gut, threatening to break out in a blush. Before it did, he spun around, ripped his coat off the hanger, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. 

He had no pants or socks, but it wasn’t important. Numbers walked briskly, up the stairs, until he reached the door to the roof. The door was always locked, but what he needed wasn’t through it. He stopped at the last step before the door and sat down, elbows on his knees. Some apartment nearby was housing a party, and the thumping bass was comfort to Numbers as he bit his lip and clutched his hair, the shame hot in his cheeks and hotter still behind his eyes.


End file.
